American Dramatists Series 



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CiJFYRIGHT DEPOSIT, 



American Dramatists Series 

TOLD BY THE 
GATE 

And Other One- Act Plays 

BY 
MALCOLM MORLEY 




BOSTON: THE GORHAM PRESS 

TORONTO: THE COPP CLABK CO., LIMITED 



Copyright, 1916, by Malcolm Morley 



(All rights of representation reserved by the author, 
from whom permission must be obtained for the per- 
formance of any one of these pieces.) 



OCT -2 iS!6 



Made in the United States of America 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



©CI.D 45026 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Told by the Gate 7 

The Masterpiece 27 

Recollections 47 

The Cosher 67 

Beauty Versus the Beast 85 

A Motor Mishap loi 



TOLD BY THE GATE 

A love cycle in one act 
1914 



CHARACTERS 

Arthur 
Leonard 
Gertrude 
Alice 

Scene: A picturesque country meadow. Hedge 
set across the stage diagonally, upper R. to lower 
L. A large swinging wooden gate is in the middle 
of the hedge. A path runs from lower entrance R. 
up stage, meets gate and extends itself beyond. 
Trees and foliage in the background. 

Period: Early Victorian. Costumes, simple and 
picturesque. 



TOLD BY THE GATE 

{Arthur discovered. He is a virile youth with 
brown hair and a restless manner. He is raising 
his hat to some one off R.) 

Arthur. Farewell! {Stands looking off R.) 

{Enter Gertrude along path behind gate. Arthur 
turns and they meet, one each side of the gate) 

Arthur. Gertrude ! 

Gertrude. Arthur ! 

Arthur. How do you do? 

Gertrude. Nicely, I thank you. And you? 

Arthur. Moderately well. I have been wait- 
ing to meet you, Gertrude. I have something to 
say to you. 

Gertrude. Yes ? 

Arthur. You will think me presumptuous, I 
fear. 

Gertrude. Why should I ? 

Arthur. I must tell you. I can keep silent no 
longer. Gertrude, I love you. 

7 



8 TOLD BY THE GATE 

Gertrude. Arthur, you are so Impulsive. 

Arthur. I cannot help it. I have looked into 
your eyes and they have bewitched me. 

Gertrude. That sounds as if you were calling 
me a witch. 

Arthur. So you are — a beautiful witch. 

Gertrude. But I thought witches were old and 
ugly and did all sorts of harm? 

Arthur. They cast spells and you have cast a 
spell on me. 

Gertrude. I was not aware of it. I must re- 
move the spell. 

Arthur. You cannot. 

Gertrude. Oh, but if I am a witch, I can re- 
move a spell of my own making. 

Arthur. I want to remain under the spell — 
always. Gertrude, tell me, does my love mean any- 
thing to you? 

Gertrude. Of course. Love means everything 
to a woman. 

Arthur. You can return my affection? 

Gertrude. I don't know. 

Arthur. You don't know? 

Gertrude. I cannot tell. I love love, I want 
to be loved and I want to be in love. 



TOLD BY THE GATE 



Arthur. Then I may hope that- 



Gertrude. Oh, I am not sure whether it is you 
I want to love me or whether I am in love with 
you. 

Arthur. It should be so. Am I not in love 
with you? 

Gertrude. You say so. 

Arthur. I mean so. 

Gertrude. It requires more than words to ex- 
press love's meaning. 

Arthur. Words help and they are all that I 
can make use of now. Give me other weapons 
and I'll use them to win you. 

Gertrude. Why do j^ou wish to win me? 

Arthur. Because I love you. 

Gertrude. Why do you love me? 

Arthur. Because — because — I cannot tell. 

Gertrude. And I cannot tell whether I love 
you. 

Arthur. I love you. 

Gertrude. Am I the first woman you have ever 
loved ? 

Arthur. You are the last. 

Gertrude. And the others? 



lo TOLD BY THE GATE 

Arthur. They don't count. 

Gertrude. One day I shall rank with them. 

Arthur. Never, never — you are the only one 
to me. I did not love the others nearly so much 
as I love you. You are above them all. My affec- 
tion for you is genuine and lasting. 

Gertrude. Did you make that same speech to 
the others? 

Arthur. Er — not exactly. 

Gertrude. But very like. 

Arthur. If I did, I did not mean it. 

Gertrude. Then why did you say it? 

Arthur. I thought I meant it. 

Gertrude. As you think you mean it now. 

Arthur. I do mean it. 

Gertrude. Arthur, I am afraid you are incon- 
stant. 

Arthur. Inconstant, never. Besides have you 
never flirted? 

Gertrude. Flirtation is the food of love. 

Arthur. Then flirt with me. I am hungry 
for love. 

Gertrude. Don't you think that a man and 
a maid and an old rustic gate are the first ele- 
ments of flirtation? 



TOLD BY THE GATE ii 

Arthur. The gate is between us. It is keep- 
ing me from you. It separates us. 

Gertrude. According to the writers of romance, 
it should bring us together. 

Arthur. It should and it does. {She is lean- 
ing over the gate smiling at him. He kissses her. 
She does not resent it) 

Arthur. Gertrude! 

Gertrude. Arthur ! 

Arthur. I love you. 

Gertrude. And I think I love you. 

Arthur. You will meet me again by the gate? 

Gertrude. Yes, indeed. 

Arthur. I must be going. 

Gertrude. So soon? 

Arthur. So soon. 

Gertrude. Alas ! 

Arthur. Good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye. (He 
kisses her) 

Gertrude. Good-bye, dear one. (He walks to 
entrance lower R. then turns to her. She waves 
handkerchief after him. He exits R. She climbs 
on gate and sits thinking. Leonard enters from 
behind hedge L. He is a blonde youth of esthetic 
appearance and inclined to be pedantic in his speech. 



12 TOLD BY THE GATE 

He pushes the gate to and fro, gently swinging 
Gertrude) 

Gertrude. Oh — Oh — (Seeing him) Leonard 
— how you frightened me. 

Leonard. May I sit beside you? 

Gertrude. Yes, if you wish it. {Leonard sits 
on gate beside her) 

Leonard. I offer you my thanks. 

Gertrude. Isn't it a beautiful day? 

Leonard. Exquisite. 

Gertrude. The country is so lovely — the air so 
fresh. 

Leonard. Positively exhilarating. 

Gertrude. Ah ! It is good to be alive, 

Leonard. I agree with you, but there are mo- 
ments when I do not think so. 

Gertrude. Whenever may they be ? 

Leonard. When I am not near you. 

Gertrude. You only say that. 

Leonard. Positively I mean it. 

Gertrude. On a morning like this I should b^ 
happy anywhere no matter with whom I was. 

Leonard. Then you are happy with me? 



TOLD BY THE GATE 13 

Gertrude. Yes. 

Leonard. I am happy with you — exquisitely 
happy. 

Gertrude. {Sighs) Ah! 

Leonard. {Sighs) Ah! {Leonard descends 
from gate, takes knife from his pocket and com- 
mences to carve on the woodwork) 

Gertrude. What are you doing? 

Leonard. Cutting our initials on the gate. 

Gertrude. There are hundreds of initials there 
already. 

Leonard. Yes, the gate is old. It has been the 
meeting place of lovers for many, many years. 

Gertrude. Here is a heart carved between an 
M. and a J. 

Leonard. And here is an M linked by a cupid's 
dart to an S. 

Gertrude. I wonder if the M stands for the 
same person in both cases. 

Leonard. Maybe. 

Gertrude. Then the gate was witness to the 
two romances. 

Leonard. Presumably. 

Gertrude. {Descending from the gate) Let 
me see how you are progressing. {She examines his 
carving) 



14 TOLD BY THE GATE 

Leonard. I have nearly finished. 

Gertrude. Oh, but you are carving a heart 
around our two initials. 

Leonard. Why not? 

Gertrude. It hardly seems right. It isn't as 
though we were betrothed. 

Leonard. This heart has a deep signification. 
It tells to all who care to observe it that L. loves G. 
{Replacing knife in his pocket) 

Gertrude. Yes, but 

Leonard. That Leonard loves Gertrude. 

Gertrude. Most likely you will carve other 
initials the same as M. did. Then the gate will 
tell how L. loved A. and B. and C. and D. and 
E. 

Leonard. No. No. Only G. I love you, 
Gertrude. Do you love me? 

Gertrude. Leonard ! 

Leonard. {Kissing her) What sublime hap- 
piness is mine. , 

Gertrude. I must continue on my way. 
{Walking R.) 

Leonard. {Following her down) You will 
see me again? 

Gertrude. Yes. 



TOLD BY THE GATE 15 

Leonard. Before long? 

Gertrude. Yes. 

Leonard. I will wait for you at the gate every 
day. 

Gertrude. I will try to come every day. Good- 
bye. 

Leonard. Good-bye, sweet Gertrude. You take 
my heart with you. Good-bye. {Kissing her hand) 

{Gertrude exits R. Leonard walks slowly back 
to gate. Alice enters behind hedge and approaches 
back of gate. She is about to open it when Leonard 
hurrying forward prevents her) 

Leonard. You must pay toll, lady, before you 
pass the gate. 

Alice. But I wish to pass. 

Leonard. Then pay the toll. 

Alice. What is the toll? 

Leonard. A kiss. 

Alice. Oh, but I couldn't. 

Leonard. Then I am afraid you cannot pass. 

Alice. You have no right to prevent me. 

Leonard. You have no right to refuse payment. 

Alice. Please let me pass. 



i6 TOLD BY THE GATE 

Leonard. If I allow you to pass will you inform 
me of your name? 

Alice. Oh, yes. 

Leonard. {Opening gate and bowing to her as 
she enters) Now may I have the privilege of hear- 
ing the unknown lady's name? 

Alice. My name is Alice. {Going R.) 

Leonard. I thank you. Must you run away 
like that? 

Alice. Yes. I 



Leonard. Won't you stay and talk to me? 

Alice. I don't know you. You haven't been 
introduced to me. 

Leonard. Let me remedy that at once. I will 
introduce myself. My name is Leonard. Now you 
know me, may I talk to you? 

Alice. You are talking to me. 

Leonard. With your permission? 

Alice. It is rather late to ask permission now. 

Leonard. You object? 

Alice. I didn't say so. 

Leonard. I trust not. I want us to be friends. 

Alice. Perhaps we shall be. 



TOLD BY THE GATE 17 

Leonard. Very good friends? 

Alice. I cannot say. I haven't known you long 
enough for that. 

Leonard. That is the reason we should see a 
great deal of one another. 

Alice. Why? 

Leonard. So that you may decide soon whether 
we are to be very good friends or no. 

Alice. Why are you so anxious for us to be 
such friends? 

Leonard. Because I admire your ways. I like 
5'our sweet voice, I love your glorious hair and I 
adore your beautiful blue eyes. 

Alice. I have several very good friends, but none 
of them talk like that. 

Leonard. Then I shall be a particular "very 
good friend." When may I see you again? 

Alice. Oh, I could not think of making an ap- 
pointment with you. 

Leonard. Misery is mine. 

Alice. {Going up to gate) But I pass through 
this gate every day about this time. 

Leonard. Joy comes to me. 

Alice. I love this old gate. 

Leonard. I also. 



1 8 TOLD BY THE GATE 

Alice. It is so quaint. 

Leonard. Exceedingly. 

Alice. It must be very ancient. Look at all the 
initials carved upon it. Some so old and some 
quite recent. 

Leonard. {Hastily standing before the place he 
has recently carved) Yes. Yes. 

Alice. How many lovers must have met here! 

Leonard. Do you wonder at it? A man and a 
maid would say more to one another by this old 
gate than anywhere else. This is the path of ro- 
mance and this the gateway to love. 

Alice. What pretty things you say. 

Leonard. (Looking steadfastly at her) I see 
them all in your eyes. 

Alice. My eyes? 

Leonard. Yes, those beautiful eyes are telling 
me wonderful things. 

Alice. What do they tell you? 

Leonard. They tell me that I may love you. 

Alice. No. 

Leonard. Your lips say no, but your eyes say 
yes. 

Alice. My eyes must be very forward. 



TOLD BY THE GATE 19 

Leonard. Only truthful; let your lips be the 
same. 

Alice. My lips should be sealed. 

Leonard. Then I will seal them. (Kisses her) 

Alice. You shouldn't. 

Leonard. Why not, pretty Alice? 

Alice. You have forced my lips to agree with 
my eyes. 

Leonard. An agreement of which I fully ap- 
prove. 

Alice. Leonard ! 

Leonard. I must go now, Alice. Farewell, and 
may our next meeting be soon. (Opens gate and 
passes through) 

Alice. I hope so. (He leans over gate, takes 
off his hat and kisses her behind it) 

Leonard. Till we meet again. 

Alice. Good-bye. (Leonard exits upper en- 
trance L. behind hedge. Alice looks after him, 
leaning upon gate. Arthur enters loiver entrance 
R. and comes up behind her) 

Arthur. Is it possible? Alice! 

Alice. (Turning) Arthur! 

Arthur. What a lucky accident! I am ever so 
pleased to meet you again. 



20 TOLD BY THE GATE 

Alice. The last time we met here, you did not 
seem very pleased. 

Arthur. I cannot be anything else but pleased 
t\'hen I see you. 

Alice. You spoke horridly to me. 

Arthur. I was jealous — that's all. 

Alice. Indeed ! 

Arthur. I love you so well I cannot help be- 
ing jealous. 

Alice. I don't understand why you should be 
jealous. 

Arthur. You had been speaking to another 
man. 

Alice. Suppose I had? 

Arthur. He had been making love to you. 

Alice. Am I to blame for that? 

Arthur. You listened to him. 

Alice. Could I help it? 

Arthur. Yes, you could have refused to listen. 

Alice. I think you are very impertinent. 

Arthur. Forgive me, Alice, but I love you. 

Alice. I should hardly have thought so from 
your behaviour. 



TOLD BY THE GATE 21 

Arthur. Forgive me, dearest, forgive me. 

Alice. Why is it we always quarrel by this 
gate? 

Arthur. Maybe it is because when standing by 
this old wooden frame I become acutely aware of 
my aiifection for you. I can think of nothing else 
and am so afraid of losing you. 

Alice. The gate has heard so many of our 
tiffs. 

Arthur. And many other lovers' tiffs and 
reconciliations too. 

Alice. If the gate could only speak! 

Arthur. What stories it could relate. 

Alice. I think it just as well it cannot talk. 

Arthur. Perhaps it is. 

Alice. The dear old gate! 

Arthur. Tell me, how long have you been 
here? 

Alice. Oh, quite a long time. 

Arthur. Alone? 

Alice. No. 

Arthur. Who was with you? 

Alice. Oh, — a stranger. 

Arthur. A man? 



22 TOLD BY THE GATE 

Alice. Er — Er — Yes. 

Arthur. I knew it. 

Alice. Then why ask me? 

Arthur. Did he make love to you? 

Alice. I refuse to answer when you speak like 
that. 

Arthur. He did. I know he did. 

Alice. Please keep your temper. 

Arthur. Keep my temper — Bah! {Laughs 
luildly ) 

Alice. Control your feelings. 

Arthur. One should have no feelings where 
women are concerned. They are all fickle, as false 
as can be. 

Alice. How differently he spoke to me. 

Arthur. You can go to him. Let him tell you 
his tale of love — pretend you have always been heart 
free — that no other man has kissed j^ou — deceive 
him as you have deceived me. He will believe 
you. The gate w^ill be the only w^itness of your 
perfidy. 

Alice. Arthur, I'll not listen to you. I am 
going. From this moment everything is over be- 
tween us. 

Arthur. Everything is. I'll not speak to an- 



TOLD BY THE GATE 23 

other woman as long as I live. Yes, I will though. 
Why shouldn't I ? I will make love to the first one 
that comes along. She will listen to me, the same 
as you did once, and then I'll make love to another 
and another. I'll be as fickle as you. 

Alice. I hate you, Arthur. 

Arthur. And I ha — No, I loved you once. 
I cannot hate you. I am just indifferent. I am 
waiting for another girl to come along. {Alice 
stamps her foot indignantly at him and exits lower 
entrance R.) 

Arthur. Farewell! {Stands looking after her) 

{Enter Gertrude along path behind gate. Arthur 
turns and they meet, one each side of the gate. The 
dialogue and business are now exactly the same as 
at the opening of the play) 

Arthur. Gertrude! 

Gertrude. Arthur ! 

Arthur. How do you do? 

Gertrude. Nicely, I thank you. And you? 

Arthur. Moderately well. I have been waiting 
to meet you, Gertrude. I have something to say to 
you. 

Gertrude. Yes ? 

Arthur. You will think me presumptuous, I 
fear. 



24 TOLD BY THE GATE 

Gertrude. Why should I? 

Arthur. I must tell you. I can keep silent no 
longer. Gertrude, I love you. 

{Quick Curtain) 



THE MASTERPIECE 

A Play in One Act 

1914 



CHARACTERS 

Maurice 

Emile 

Paulette 

Helene 

Scene : The Apartment of Maurice in the Mont- 
marte, Paris. Doors R. and L. Window C. Fire- 
place R. Table, chairs, etc. 



THE MASTERPIECE 

(Maurice is discovered seated at table ivith writ- 
ing materials before him. He reads over something 
he has written, is dissatisfied and tears it up. He 
rises and walks up and down the room trying to con- 
pose sentences. He sits again, picks up a pen and 
writes a few phrases. Once more he expresses dis- 
satisfaction and tears up what he has written. 

Enter Paulette L. She goes up behind him and 
places her arms around his neck) 

Paulette. My poor boy, jou are worried. 

Maurice. The phrases will not come. The 
words elude me. 

Paulette. Patience, Maurice, patience. 

Maurice. Patience never helped me yet. That 
is only for commonplace writers. It is inspiration 
I want. 

Paulette. It will come. 

Maurice. Paulette, I am going to write a 
masterpiece, do you hear, a masterpiece! 

Paulette. I am sure of it. 

Maurice. My new book will be the talk of 
Paris, of France, of the entire world. 
27 



28 THE MASTERPIECE 

Paulette. How proud I shall be of my lover. 

Maurice. But I cannot commence until the 
moment of inspiration. I must have inspiration. 

Paulette. If only I could inspire you! 

Maurice. You cannot. You did once, but this 
is different. When I wrote "The Victory of Love," 
your influence was essential. You loved me and 
were near me. Your presence alone enabled me to 
write of the joy and happiness of true love. If 
only I could write with the same facility now ! 

Paulette. Why should it be different? 

Maurice. Because the subject is different. The 
hero of my new story is an unavailing lover. He 
loves but is not loved. What inspiration can you 
give me when you love me? If only you did not. 

Paulette. What then? 

Maurice. Then my emotions, my feelings, 
would be the same as those of my hero. I could de- 
scribe the futility of his passion, the hopelessness of 
his affection. My despair would be his. My 
thoughts would be his and thus I could write of his 
despondency and his misery. 

Paulette. But, Maurice, cannot you imagine 
all of that? 

Maurice. No. I must live it. It is the only 
way to produce my masterpiece. 

Paulette. How can you live it? 



THE MASTERPIECE 29 

Maurice. I must, somehow. Paulette, you must 
hate me — you must resist me — spurn me — never 
allow me to come near you. 

Paulette. Oh, Maurice, I couldn't. 

Maurice. You couldn't? 

Paulette. No, indeed. 

Maurice. Then you don't love me. 

Paulette. You know I do. 

Maurice. If you loved me, you would hate me 
when I asked you. 

Paulette. I could only pretend, and I am afraid 
that would not be much good, as all the time we 
should know we really loved each other. 

Maurice. Yes, pretence is no good. It must be 
the genuine thing with me. My emotions must be 
real, vividly real. 

Paulette. How can you force them to be dif- 
ferent from what they are? 

Maurice. That is easy if one places one's work 
first. Listen, Paulette. I must have a hopeless 
passion. You and I can no longer be together — we 
mus^ forget each other — until my book is completed, 
my masterpiece written. 

Paulette. Oh, Maurice! 

Maurice. I must make unavailing love to some 
one. It is absolutely necessary. 



30 THE MASTERPIECE 

Paulette. But — but — Oh, you can't mean it. 
{Half crying) 

Maurice. I certainly do. Come, come, Paulette, 
why should you mind? It is for the sake of my 
masterpiece. When that is finished, we can come 
together again. Our love will be all the more glo- 
rious because of the sacrifice it has made for art. 

Paulette. You are cruel. 

Maurice. It is you who will be cruel, if you 
hinder me from writing my masterpiece. Let us 
forget each other until that is written. Remember, 
I am not going to be untrue to you. It is unsuc- 
cessful love that I intend to experience. 

Paulette. {Drying her eyes) Whom are you 
going to make love to? 

Maurice. That's a question. It must be some 
one who cannot love me. Is there anybody, I won- 



Paulette. Don't take any risks. 

Maurice. If I make my advances to a girl 
who has already formed an attachment, I ought to 
succeed in not succeeding. 

Paulette. There is Helene. She and Emile are 
devoted to one another. You would stand no chance 
with her. Besides, she has often asked me how 
I manage to endure you. 

Maurice. {Petulantly) Indeed! 



THE MASTERPIECE 31 

Paulette. She will be sure to reject you. 

Maurice. God bless her! 

Paulette. And as I Interfere with the compo- 
sition of your masterpiece, I — I'll pack my things 
together and — and leave you. {Crosses to door L.) 

Maurice. God bless you! 

Paulette. Since you wish it, all is over between 
us. 

Maurice. Until my work is completed. Do 
not forget that my love for you is lying dormant 
and when the book is finished will revive a thousand- 
fold. 

Paulette. Suppose the book is never written? 

Maurice. {Emphatically) It shall be. Helene 
will give me inspiration. 

Paulette. Oh ! — I hope so. {Exit Paulette L.) 

{Maurice paces slowly backwards and forwards. 
He observes picture of Paulette on the rnantelshelf 
R. He takes it down regretfully and places it in 
drawer of table L. C. On looking up he sees an- 
other picture of her on the table. This he also 
intends to place away in the drawer, but before 
doing so raises it to his lips) 

{J^mile and Helene enter door R. abruptly) 

£mile. Maurice! Maurice! 

Maurice. {Putting down picture) Who's 
there ? 



32 THE MASTERPIECE 

Emile. We are. 

Maurice. {Turning to them) Emile, and you, 
too, Helene. {Shaking hands with them) De- 
lighted to see you both. 

Emile. Have you heard the news? 

Maurice. What news? 

Helene. Jean Ladureau has sold a painting for 
a thousand francs. He is celebrating his good for- 
tune at *'Le Chat Noir" and wants us all to join 
him. 

Maurice. Good ! 

Helene. Hurrah for Jean. May he sell many 
more pictures! 

Emile. Where's Paulette? 

Maurice. In the next room. I'll go and tell 
her. {Exit Maurice L.) 

Helene. How attached Maurice is to Paulette. 
{Picking up ticture) See, here is her picture. He 
was actually kissing it when wt came in, and she 
only in the next room. 

Emile. Paulette is equally as devoted to him. 

Helene. He is a great artiste and loves as only 
a great artiste can love. 

Emile. Meaning that I, being nothing but a 
reporter, cannot love. 



THE MASTERPIECE 33 

Helens. I did not sa}^ that. Maurice has won- 
derful thoughts and ideas. His love must be won- 
derful, too, and as fanciful as his writings, whereas 
yours is 

Emile. Yes, mine is ? 

Helene. Well — just ordinary and commonplace. 

Emile. Helene, you are trying to pick another 
one of your quarrels. Why, I have often heard 
you ask Paulette how she ever managed to endure 
Maurice. 

Helene. Oh, yes, that is a question I ask every 
girl concerning her lover. 

Emile. It is remarkable that you endure me, see- 
ing that my love is so commonplace. 

Helene. What can't be cured must be endured. 

Emile. You are irritating. I have a good mind 
to break with you — to finish our "ordinary and 
commonplace" romance. 

Helene. Do, if it pleases you, but you will find 
that I have only to beckon and you will come back 
to me. 

Emile. Never. Let me tell you something. If 
Paulette were not with Maurice she would be with 
me. I loved her more than ever I loved you. 

Helene. Maurice won her. I am not surprised 
at that, considering the difference between the two 
of vou. 



34 THE MASTERPIECE 

tmiLE. He won her because he wrote poetry. He 
would write sonnets to her eyes, her hair and her 
teeth. Bah — what is a poet? A man who degrades 
beautiful thoughts by bringing them to the dull drab 
level of words. 

Helene. You are jealous of him. 

fiMiLE. What became of his poetry when he 
found he could not live by it? Without a regret 
he abandoned it and took to prose. He writes 
tender love stories. Who reads them? Nobody 
except a few fat sentimental old women. 

Helene. Emile, you are unjust. He is a great 
author and will one day be acclaimed so. As for 
Paulette, she doesn't deserve to be loved by so 
wonderful a man. 

(Enter Paulette and Maurice L.) 

Paulette. Monsieur Emile. Helene. 

Helene. {Crossing to Paulette) Paulette, my 
sweet child, how are you? You look pale. 

Paulette. It is nothing. 

Helene. Surely you have been crying. I feel 
so concerned about you, darling. 

Paulette. You are very kind, but really, it is 
nothing. 

£mile. Come, let us join Jean. It is not often 
that he sells a picture. 

Paulette. Yes, let us go. 



THE MASTERPIECE 35 

tmiLE. Come, then, to "Le Chat Noir." 

All. To "Le Chat Nolr." 

£mile. Take my arm, Mademoiselle Paulette. 

Paulette. With pleasure, Monsieur. {J^mile 
and Paulette exit R.) 

{Throughout the following scene it is apparent 
that Maurice is acting a part) 

Helene. {At door R., to Maurice) Are you 
coming? 

Maurice. Grant me a favour. Remain behind a 
short while. I wish to speak to you. 

Helene. Certainly. 

Maurice. I have news that may surprise you. 

Helene. What is it? 

Maurice. Paulette and I are parting. 

Helene. You are? But I thought 

Maurice. You thought that I loved her. I 
thought so myself once, but it was a mistake. 

Helene. You love some one else? 

Maurice. Alas, yes. 

Helene. And this some one is taking Paulette's 
place ? 

Maurice. Alas, no. 

Helene. But you hope to win her? 



36 THE MASTERPIECE 

Maurice. That is impossible. 

Helene. Nothing should be impossible to you 
who write such beautiful books. 

Maurice. I am consumed with a hopeless pas- 
sion. The fire of love has entered my heart. It is 
burning me but I cannot quench it. It will leave 
me a smouldering cinder on the path of life. 

Helene. How poetic! 

Maurice. She has entered my life and taken 
entire possession of my thoughts. Not a minute 
of the day passes but what I think of her, one mo- 
ment deluding myself with pictures of the happi- 
ness that would come to me were she mine, the next 
moment realising the sheer impossibility of such a 
thing. 

Helene. But why impossible? 

Maurice. She belongs to another. 

Helene. Have 3'ou told her that you love her? 

Maurice. What is the use? My pleadings 
would be without avail, my words would fall upon 
ears unattuned to them. 

Helene. Why not put it to the test? 

Maurice. I dare not. I know the answer too 
well. Her face is turned from me. Never, never, 
will it be inclined in my direction. No, I must 
accept my fate, that of a despairing, unavailing 
lover. 



THE MASTERPIECE 37 

Helene. Who is the lady who has inspired such 
a grand passion in you? 

Maurice. I tremble to tell you. 

Helene. You may have every confidence in me. 
I will never betray your secret. 

Maurice. If I told you I should incur your 
eternal displeasure. 

Helene. How can that be? 

Maurice. It can be, because the lady is 

No, no. I dare not say it. 

Helene. Please tell me. Since you have told 
me so much, I shall be mortified if you do not tell 
me who she is. You know you may trust me to 
say nothing. 

Maurice. {Falling on his knees before her) 
Helene, it is you. Do you understand now why I 
am unhappy? You love Emile, you belong to him. 
My love must be forever unrequited. 

Helene. You love me? 

Maurice. Alas! Alas! Alas! 

Helene. Maurice! How beautiful! 

Maurice. But I am spurned and despised. How 
miserable I am! 

Helene. Do not be miserable. 

Maurice. I love you. I cannot help loving you. 
My soul cries out for you. Its cry is unheeded. It 



38 THE MASTERPIECE 

calls in vain. Oh, the torture of a hopeless passion! 
Other men have their loves, but I am doomed to 
be alone — a pariah, an outcast fated to leave un- 
touched the rapturous delights of love. 

Helene. How^ poetic! 

Maurice. But I can still worship you from the 
distance. You are like the sun above me, miles 
and miles away, but you cannot prevent a solitary 
ray of light from penetrating the darkness of my 
lonely cell. 

Helene. Maurice, your cell need not be lonely. 

Maurice. You mean Paulette will be with me. 
No, she can stay with me no longer. I do not love 
her. It is you I w^ant, Helene. 

Helene. You really want me? 

Maurice. Madly. But why have I told you? 
How you must hate me. 

Helene. I do not hate you. 

Maurice. No? 

Helene. I love you, Maurice. I am all yours. 

Maurice. {Intensely surprised) What? 

Helene. I always preferred you to fimile. I 
never suspected your feelings towards me. I have 
always wanted you to love me, and now I give 
myself to you. 

Maurice. I — I am overwhelmed. {Rising) 



THE MASTERPIECE 39 

Helene. With joy. Naturally, you are, dear 
heart. 

Maurice. I thought you would refuse me. 

Helene. You imagined I was devoted to Emile. 

Maurice. Yes. 

Helene. He and I can never agree. We are 
always quarreling. I have been thinking of leaving 
him for some time and now that I know you love 
me, everything is changed for me. 

Maurice. And for me, too. 

Helene. What bliss will be ours! 

Maurice. Yes, but 

Helene. But what, dearest? 

Maurice. My masterpiece. 

Helene. Your masterpiece? 

Maurice. I cannot write it now. 

Helene. It shall be a masterpiece of master- 
pieces. I will inspire you to write it. 

Maurice. That is just what you cannot do. 

Helene. Surely my love must help you? 

Maurice. You do not understand. To help 

me with my masterpiece, you should not have 

listened to my love-making. You have spoilt every- 
thing by saying "Yes." 

Helene. I don't understand. 



40 THE MASTERPIECE 

Maurice. It is simple enough. I was tr^dng 
to experience the emotions that I want my hero to 
go through. He is to make love and be refused. 
You have upset my arrangement by accepting me. 

Helene. You mean that all those poetic speeches 
were meant for a book; that you do not love me? 

Maurice. Not now that you have listened to 
my pleadings. 

Helene. You are a horrid, wicked deceiver. 
You tell me you love me, and all the time you do 
not love me. 

Maurice. It is my work that I love. All my 
real feelings and emotions have to be sacrificed for 
the sake of my art. It is my method and the results 
should be worth it. In order to make my master- 
piece realistic, I have to live the life of my hero. 

Helene. Then you intended me to be the 
means to an end. 

Maurice. Forgive me, Helene, forgive me. 

Helene. Never, never, I hate you, I hate Emile, 
I hate all men. 

(Enter Paulette R.) 

Paulette. Aren't you coming over? We are 
waiting for you. 

Helene. Do not include me in the party. I 
shall not be there. 

Paulette. Why, what is the matter, Helene? 



THE MASTERPIECE 41 

Helene. Oh, nothing. Maurice has been mak- 
ng love to me, that's all. 



Paulette. And Emile has been making love 
to me. Aren't men fickle creatures? 

Helene. I'll never listen to another as long as 
I live. {Exit Helene R.) 

Paulette. She seems upset. I knew she would 
refuse you, but I did not think she would be so 
indignant. 

Maurice. She didn't refuse me. 

Paulette. No? 

Maurice. Consequently I had to tell her that 
she had placed me in a false position. 

Paulette. You mean you had placed her in a 
false position. 

Maurice. It's all the same. 

Paulette. No wonder she was indignant. I 
should have been the same myself. She resented 
being picked up and let fall according to the vagaries 
of the artistic temperament. 

Maurice. Tell me, Paulette, Is It true that 
Emile has been making love to you? {Paulette as- 
sents) How dare he? He knows that you belong 
to me. 

Pauline. I told him that our Romance was 
finished. 

Maurice. What about Helene? 



42 THE MASTERPIECE 

Paulette. I also told him that you were prob- 
ably making love to her. 

Maurice. Paulette, you know that you are the 
only girl that I can ever have any real affection for. 

Paulette. Is your affection ever real? 

Maurice. You know It Is. Look at the happy 
times we have had together. 

Paulette. Yes, but they are ended now, and 
Emile says my happy times In future will be with 
him. 

Maurice. {Incredulously) Paulette, you do 
not intend to leave me? 

Paulette. My dear boy, I have already left 
you. We arranged all that a short time ago. 

Maurice. You can't mean It? 

Paulette. I do. 

Maurice. But what am I to do without you? 

Paulette. What you please; study your emo- 
tions, continue with your writing; perhaps you will 
be famous one day. 

Maurice. Listen, Paulette, I love you. I al- 
ways have loved you and always will. Do not be 
so cruel as to leave me! I entreat you to remain 
with me. I can't live without you! If you desert 
me the sunshine will disappear from my life and all 
will be dark. 



THE MASTERPIECE 43 

Paulette. You told me to go. 

Maurice. Forget my words. Forgive me and 
come back to me. I love you, Paulette, I love you, 

Paulette. I loved you, too, once ; but after your 
words this morning, that love has died. I do not 
wish to listen to you any longer. 

Maurice. Paulette ! 

Paulette. {Crossing to door R.) Good-bye. 

Maurice. Do not go out of my life! 

Paulette. Good-bye. 

Maurice. Shall I never see you again? 

Paulette. Never 

Maurice. Ah ! 

Paulette. Until the masterpiece is written. 

Maurice. The masterpiece? 

Paulette. Yes. Farewell. (Exit Paulette R.) 

{Maurice looks after her, thinking deeply. It 
dawns upon him that he has undergone the experi- 
ence he wished for and that he can now proceed 
with his work. He sits at the table, picks up a pen 
and slowly commences to write. He becomes more 
and more absorbed in his work and is writing rapidly 
when the curtain descends.) 



RECOLLECTIONS 

A Matrimonial Duologue 

1913 



CHARACTERS 

George Travers 
Muriel Travers 

Scene: Sitting Room in the Travers* flat at 
Kensington. Doors R. and C. Fireplace L. Ap- 
propriate furniture. Time, 8 o'clock in the even- 
ing. 



RECOLLECTIONS 

{Enter George, C.j in evening dress. He slowly 
takes ojf hat and coat, sits near fireplace, and gives 
vent to an expressive ''DamnT He takes letter out 
of his pocket and reads it, tears it into small pieces 
and throws it into the fire. He watches the pieces 
as they burn. Enter Muriel, R., in evening gown 
and opera cloak. She utters an exclamation of 
surprise as she sees George.) 

Muriel. George! You at home! 

George. Why shouldn't I be? 

Muriel. It is so unusual for you to be here in 
the evening. 

George. The unusual is not always the impos- 
sible. 

Muriel. You are generally at your club — or 
somewhere. It is such a surprise to find you at 
home. 

George. There are more surprises in married 
life than are dreamt of in woman's philosophy. 

Muriel. From the hurried manner in which 
you changed and rushed out of the house two hours 
ago, I presumed you had an appointment for dinner. 
47 



48 RECOLLECTIONS 

George. I understood so myself, but the under- 
standing was a misunderstanding. 

Muriel. You haven't dined? Poor dear, how 
cross you must be. 

George. I'm no different from usual. 

Muriel. I didn't say you were. 

George. Besides, I have dined. 

Muriel. Then why complain? Where's the 
misunderstanding ? 

George. I had an appointment to dine with a 
friend at Romano's. There was a letter for me 
at the restaurant saying that it was all off. So 
I was left to my own resources. 

Muriel. With no pretty lady to make love to. 

George. I didn't say my appointment was with 
a lady. 

Muriel. Your air of abject dejection at her 
non-appearance infers it, however. 

George. Well, my friends are my own. 

Muriel. Even if they don't keep appointments. 

George. I went on to the club hoping to meet 
some of the fellows there, but they were all out of 
town, so I dined alone in solitary state. 

Muriel. Good company, if not particularly 
brilliant. 



RECOLLECTIONS 49 

George. It wasn't good enough for me, so I 
returned home to enjoy the society of my wife. 

Muriel. Your wife is very sorry that she can- 
not be a makeshift, much as she would like to be. 
The fact is, she has an engagement which she must 
fulfil. Besides, it is too absurd. 

George. What ? 

Muriel. For a husband to pretend he enjoys 
his wife's society after seven years of married life. 

George. Where are you going? 

Muriel. To keep an appointment. 

George. With whom? 

Muriel. Your interest flatters me. With an 
acquaintance. 

George. A man or a woman? 

Muriel. Curious — eh? 

George. Oh, no, not at all. Don't tell me, if 
you don't want to. 

Muriel. I don't. 

George. Of course your friends are your own, 
and it's no business of mine. My friends are my 
own and 

Muriel. It's no business of mine. 

George. Exactly. 



50 RECOLLECTIONS 

Muriel. How perfectly we agree. 

{He lights cigarette. She stands by mirror ar- 
ranging her cloak, etc.) 

George. What time is your appointment? 

Muriel. Eight o'clock. 

George. You'll be late. It's a quarter past 
now. 

Muriel. Oh, he can wait. 

George. He ? 

Muriel. Yes, it is a he — Henry Curtis. He is 
taking me to the first night at the Majestic. 

George. That idiot. 

Muriel. Is it necessary for me to hear my 
friends insulted? 

George. That man your friend. 

Muriel. Why not? He has been very atten- 
tive to me lately. Yesterday he escorted me to the 
Fine Arts Ball, and last Friday we went together 
to the Opera. 

George. That man is absolutely void of common 
sense. 

Muriel. I think that's what makes him so in- 
teresting. 

George. You think so? 



RECOLLECTIONS 51 

Muriel. Yes. People gifted with common sense 
are generally very tedious. 

Geqrge. Well, don't let me keep you from him. 

Muriel. You're not. I want him to wait for 
me. It does him good to wait, and he appreciates 
me all the more when I do arrive. 

George. You're just the same Muriel. You 
used to keep me waiting in the same fashion. 

Muriel. I'm sure I never did. 

George. I have recollections of waiting hours at 
stations and restaurants for you. 

Muriel. That was your own fault — you were 
always hours too early. 

George. Oh, come now, you must admit there 
were occasions when you were behind time. 

Muriel. They were very few, then, and I was 
never more than five minutes late. 

George. Why, I remember waiting for you one 
time at Victoria from three till half past four. 

Muriel. That wasn't my fault. I couldn't 
travel by the train I intended to because father 
happened to be going up to tow^n that day. Remem- 
ber, he objected very strongly to our meetings. Why, 
he would have had a fit had he known that I went 
all the way from Sutton to town just to take tea 
with you. 

George. {Throwing away his cigarette and 



52 RECOLLECTIONS 

speaking enthusiastically) Yes, I remember seeing 
the train in and meeting the old boy. He seemed 
surprised to see me. He little knew I had a 
rendezvous with his daughter. 

Muriel. I came on by the next train, and, going 
back, took the one just before father. He doesn't 
know to this day about that meeting. 

George. That wasn't the only occasion when 
we hoaxed him. 

Muriel. No — there was that time when he and 
I drove over to Croydon. You followed the trap 
on your bicycle. 

George. Yes, I kept you in sight all the way. 
He had no suspicion I was behind. 

Muriel. Then he told me to drive home alone, 
as he had business in Croydon 

George. And you drove home, but not alone. 

Muriel. (Laughing) It didn't take you long 
to dispose of your bicycle and to be sitting beside 
me in the trap. 

George. What a glorious afternoon that was! 

Muriel. We were happy enough then. 

George. We were. 

Muriel. Although I remember you said you 
would never be happy until we were man and wife. 

George. Did I? 



RECOLLECTIONS 53 

Muriel. You did, and you were tremendously 
emphatic about it. 

George. And you said, too, that you would 
never be really happy until we were married. 

Muriel. I said that? 

George. Yes, I know I kissed you over and 
over again for saying it. 

Muriel. And now we are married. 

George. Yes. 

Muriel. How happy we must be. 

George. You say that as if we weren't happy 
now. 

Muriel. But we are, if our own prophecies are 
to be believed. 

George. Perfect happiness does not belong to 
the present tense; it is either past or future. 

Muriel. And ours belonged to the future, but 
now belongs to the past. 

George. You seem to be enjoying the present, 
however. You have plenty of distractions, to say 
nothing of that idiot of a Curtis to make love to you. 

Muriel. He doesn't make love to me. Our re- 
lations are everything they should be. 

George. Oh, I don't doubt it is an innocent 
flirtation, if flirtations are ever innocent. 



54 RECOLLECTIONS 

Muriel. What a thing to accuse me of ! Why, 
I never flirt. 

George. You always were a flirt, Muriel. I 
remember on your mother's At-Home days you 
flirted with every man who called. 

Muriel. Oh, no! — not every one. 

George. Well, all who were worth flirting 
with. 

Muriel. That's more like it, and don't forget, 
you were one of the favoured few. 

George. Yes, and how jealous I was of the 
others. 

Muriel. Oh, but they didn't seriously count 
with me. 

George. I wasn't able to tell that until I 



Muriel. Until you were silly enough to propose 
and I was silly enough to accept you. 

George. Do you remember that day, Muriel? 

Muriel. Do I remember? A woman always 
remembers her first three proposals, and yours was 
only my second. 

George. It was my very first. 

Muriel. That sounds as if you had made a 
good many since. 

George. I should have said, you are the only 
woman I ever proposed to. 



RECOLLECTIONS 55 

Muriel. That accounts for the terrible mess 
you made of it. 

George. I say, now, I flatter myself I did it 
very neatly. 

Muriel. {Laughs) 

George. That amuses you. 

Muriel. Oh, George, if only you could have 
seen how ridiculous you looked. 

George. Ridiculous? 

Muriel. Yes, you hemmed and hawed and 
spluttered until I was really afraid you would 
never get it out. 

George. Afraid ? 

Muriel. Well, of course I wanted you to finish, 
once you had started. 

George. I came to the point in a straightfor- 
ward, manly way. 

Muriel. {Laughing) Oh, you came to the 
point all right, but you stopped once or twice on 
the way. 

George. I suppose you were as much amused 
then as you are now. 

Muriel. {Changing her tone) No, indeed; that 
was the greatest moment of my life. I wish I could 
live it all over again. 



56 RECOLLECTIONS 

George. You do? 

Muriel. Yes. 

George. Then, by Jove, j^ou shall. I'll propose 
to you again. 

Muriel. Exactly as you did seven years ago? 

George. Exactly. 

Muriel. Can you remember what you said? 

George. I ought to be able to. I practised it 
long enough beforehand. 

Muriel {Taking off her cloak) Then we'll 
go over the scene just as it happened seven years 
ago. 

George. Your father was out when I called at 
the house and you were in the drawing room, I 
think. 

.Muriel. Yes, seated on the sofa, reading a book. 

George. Were you reading? , 

Muriel. I recollect distinctly. I knew your 
knock and did not want 5^ou to find me unoccupied. 
{Picking up book and sitting on sofa R.) Here 
I am on the sofa. You are outside in the hall. 

George. Right. {Goes outside door C.) 

Muriel. Now for the momentous occasion. 

George. {From outside) Are you ready? 



RECOLLECTIONS 57 

Muriel. Yes. 

{George enters briskly and speaks in a matter- 
of-fact way) 

George. Good afternoon, Muriel. How do you 
do. Charming day to-day. 

Muriel. {Laughing) Not a bit like it. 

George. No ? 

Muriel. You didn't come into the room like 
that. Why that is your best solicitor's manner, and 
I never had enough faith in you to become your 
client. You came in very quietly, and you didn't 
talk about the weather. 

George. Oh — Well, I'll try again. {Goes up 
to door C.) 

Muriel. I don't believe you remember anything 
about it. 

George. I do. You'll see this time. {George 
goes outside door. He re-enters, opening the door 
cautiously, and creeps doiun to back of sofa where 
Muriel is sitting, pretending to read. He places 
his hand over her eyes) 

Muriel. Who is it? {Releasing herself and 
rising) Hullo, George. 

George. Hullo, Muriel. I knew the old man 
was going to be away, so I came down especially 
to see you. {He shakes hands with her. They smile 
at each other) 



58 RECOLLECTIONS 

Muriel. How nice of you. 

George. I've brought you these. I hope you'll 
like them. {Produces imaginary parcel and hands 
it to her) 

Muriel. Thank j^ou. {Resumes seat on sofa 
and opens the parcel in pantomime) Oh, what 
a lovely box of chocolates! 

George. I wonder what I said next. 

Muriel. You didn't say anything. You were 
too busy helping me to eat the chocolates. 

George. So I was. {They both pretend to be 
busy eating chocolates) 

Muriel. Go on with your proposal. 

George. {Pretending to be nervous and speaking 
very slowly) Muriel, I want to ask you something 
— you must know what it is. You cannot fail to 
have observed that I — that I 

Muriel. Oh— Oh 



George. What's the matter? 

Muriel, This is a ginger one. I don't like gin- 
ger. You have it. {Places i?naginary chocolate 
which she has bitten into George's mouth) 

George. You cannot fail to have observed 
that 

Muriel. That you have your mouth full and 
it is utter bad form to make love with your mouth 



RECOLLECTIONS 59 

full of chocolate and ginger. 

George. {Hastily swallows what is supposed 
to be in his mouth) There, it's gone, and now it 
isn't bad form for me to make love. {Approaches 
her and takes her by the hands) You cannot fail 
to 

Muriel. Oh, there — you've upset the box. 
How clumsy you are. Please pick them up. {He 
picks up the chocolates one by one and places them 
in the boXj which he returns to her) 

Muriel. Thank you. 

George. You cannot fail to have observed that 



Muriel. If you say that again I shall scream. 

George. Muriel. 

Muriel. If you want to ask me to marry you, 
do it in a natural manner. Don't stand there tell- 
ing me that I cannot fail to have observed, just as 
if I were the heroine in a cheap novel. 

George. Make fun of me if you like, but I'm 
serious. {Speaking deliberately) Will you be my 
wife? 

Muriel. {Imitating his tone; rising) Will 
you be less theatrical? 

George. ( Taking her in his arms and speaking 
ardently) Look here, Muriel, you have just got 
to be, Do you understand? You've got to marry 



6o RECOLLECTIONS 

me. 

Muriel. Well, of course, if you insist. 

George. I do. 

Muriel. Then I suppose I must. 

George. {Rapturously) Muriel. 

Muriel. {Returning abruptly to present time) 
Splendid, but you forgot to kiss me. 

George. So I did — there. {Kisses her) 

Muriel. Oh, but you didn't give me a peck 
like that. 

George. {Holds her in his arms and gives her 
a long kiss) Is that it? 

Muriel. That's better. 

George. And then we had to break the news to 
your father. 

Muriel. Poor Papa. He never seemed to take 
to you. He said you were a perfect fool. 

George. Oh, did he? 

Muriel. And I used to tell him that a perfect 
fool might make a perfect husband, but an imper- 
fect fool — never. 

George. Anyhow, you managed to make him 
consent to our engagement. 

Muriel. Yes, after he had raved and carried on, 



RECOLLECTIONS 6i 

abusing everybody and everything. It was only 
when he saw how determined I was to marry you 
that he gave in. 

George. I was equally determined to marry you. 

Muriel. Yes, we meant to have our own way 
in that small matter. 

George. How absorbed we were in each other. 

Muriel. Now we don't seem at all indispens- 
able to each other. 

George. You have Henry Curtis to interest you ! 

Muriel. And you have an unknown lady with 
whom you dine at Romano's. 

George. Oh, she doesn't count. I don't really 
care a rap for her. She is only a distraction. 

Muriel. I can't even call Henry Curtis that. 
He is so senseless. 

George. Then why go with him to-night? 

Muriel. I don't intend to. 

George. What are you going to do? 

Muriel. Sta^- at home with you. 

George. What about your appointment? 

Muriel. I've finished with him. You can be 
much more entertaining — especially when you re- 
hearse love scenes. 

George. Can't we make those rehearsals real? 



62 RECOLLECTIONS 

Muriel. George, you forget that we have been 
married seven years. 

George. And we should be nearer and closer 
to each other, instead of drifting apart as we are 
doing. 

Muriel. What about the unknown lady? 

George. She always came a long way after you, 
but now I give her up completely. 

Muriel. {Going to him and speaking quietly) 
George, I don't think our married life has been all 
we intended it to be. 

George. It's my fault. I've neglected you. 

Muriel. And my fault, too. I've been indif- 
ferent and allowed other men to flirt with me. 

George. Let's begin again. Let us go back to 
the first few months after our wedding. 

Muriel. Yes. We won't allow our affection to 
simmer any more. 

George. Do you remember, I used to sit in this 
chair? {Sits in chair near fire) 

Muriel. Yes. {She goes to lamp on table and 
turns it out) The light would be out and I would 
sit beside you with my head on your shoulder. 
{Seats herself so. The light froju the fire falls upon 
their figures) 

George. We would sit looking into the fire. 



RECOLLECTIONS 63 

Muriel. And we would see wonderful things 
there. 

George. Then I would take out a cigarette. 
{He takes out cigarette and places it in his mouth) 

Muriel. And I would insist on lighting it for 
you. {She rises, takes matches from mantelshelf 
and lights his cigarette) 

Muriel. And before I allowed you to enjoy 
your smoke 

George. You w^ould kiss me. 

Muriel. Like that. {She kisses him, then sits 
on his knee ivith an arm round his neck. The light 
from the fire burns low and they are barely dis- 
cernible by the audience) 

George. And do you recollect when 



( The Curtain falls in time to prevent completion 
of speech) 



THE COSHER 

A Play in One Act 

1914 



CHARACTERS 

Jim Smith 

Dick 

Mrs. Martin 

Fanny 

Scene: Interior of a mean tenement at Lime- 
house, London. Door L. Broken-doivn bed R. C. 
Chairs and table L. C. Dingy oil-lamp on table, 
alight. 



THE COSHER 

{Fanny discovered on bed. She is a young woman, 
untidy and shabbily dressed, but not without physi- 
cal attractions.) 

{Enter Jim. He is a weak-looking man of about 
twenty-five.) 

Jim. Are you asleep, Fanny? 

Fanny. No. Fve been expecting of you a long 
time. Have you prigged anything? 

Jim. No, I ain't. Luck's against me to-day, 
Give us a kiss, Fanny. {Approaching her) 

Fanny. {Rising and facing him) Have you 
got any money? 

Jim. Not a stiver. I ain't had any luck, I tell 
you. 

Fanny. Then keep your paws off me. 

Jim. 'Tain't my fault, Fm no good at pinching 
things. Fve been trying to get a job — somewhere 
where I could work honest. 

Fanny. Dry up with that Bible Class stuff. 
Do you mean to tell me you've been wasting all the 
day looking for a job? 

67 



68 THE COSHER 

Jim. Not all the day. I was a keeping my eye 
open for something to prig, but there was always 
a cop around and, blime me, I was afraid of being 
nabbed — then I'd be sent away from you, and I 
couldn't stand that. 

Fanny. Garn, a lot of use you are to a girl. I 
wish you was nabbed. 

Jim. Don't say that, Fanny. I loves you. 

Fanny. Then why don't you get some hoof? 
The other blokes as I lived with looked after me 
proper, they did. 

Jim. God-damn 'em. 

Fanny. Why in hell I took up with you, Jim 
Smith, blowed if I know. 

Jim. I reckon you took up with me 'cos Fd a 
bit of money in my pocket when you first met 
me. Now that's gone, you want me to go too. 

Fanny. No, I don't. I like j^ou better than the 
others. I do straight, Jim, seeing as you don't 
knock me about like they did. But I don't want 
you to be afraid and ashamed of prigging. How do 
you think we're going to live, if you don't get no 
money somehow? 

Jim. I tell you, Fll get a job soon, then it'll be 
all right. 

Fanny. That's what you're always a saying, 
and a fat chance you got of getting a regular job. 



THE COSHER 69 

Jim. I had one once. 

Fanny. Yes, carman, fifteen bob a week, and 
you got the sack and won't be took on anyw^here's 
else without a character. 

Jim. Well, anyhow, I ain't no good as a thief. 

Fanny. You ain't no good as anything. 

Jim. That's it, go for me. 

Fanny. Can't you get some more splosh out of 
your blooming brother? 

Jim. How can I, when I don't know where he 
is? Besides, he ain't always got money. Soon as 
he gets on shore he spends it. Booze and girls, 
them's his hobbies. 

Fanny. You got some out of him before. 

Jim. Yes, he was awful good to me, my brother 
was. He give me a couple of quid 'cos I was out 
o' work, then I meets you and your old mother, 
and between you, you soon get rid of it for me. 

Fanny. Well, you've had something for it, 
ain't you? 

Jim. Yes, from you ; but the old woman, I don't 
see why she should have my money to buy herself 
gin with. I don't want her here with us, either — 
see? 

Fanny. Don't you say nothing against my 
mother. 



70 THE COSHER 
Jim. I ain't; I only said as 



Fanny. You are — just you shut up about her; 
she's my mother, and whoever has me has to have 
her. 

{AI?'s. Martin hea?-d off L. singing "Home Stueet 
Home'' in a maudlin voice) 

Jim. Here she is. Damn her! 

{Enter Mrs. Martin, a draggled, tinkefupt, pre- 
maturely old luoman. It is very apparent she has 
been drinking, although she has control of her 
senses) 

Mrs. Martin. Hullo, Dearies. How are the 
little love-birds in their nest? (Singing) No mat- 
ter how lowly, there's no place like Home. 

Fanny. Shut up! 

Mrs. Martin. There's a nice way to talk to your 
own mother, what is your own flesh and blood. 
Shame on you, Fanny Martin, shame on you! 

Jim. You're drunk again, you old devil! 

Mrs. Martin. I'm not a devil. Fm Fanny's 
mother. Fanny's an angel. Fm her mother, the 
mother of an angel, so I must be an archangel. 
( Throivs herself on to the bed) 

Fanny. Who's been treating of you? 

Mrs. Martin. Treating of me? 

Fanny. Yes, who gave you the booze? 



THE COSHER 71 

Mrs. Martin. Who do you think? 

Fanny. Dunno. 

Mrs. Martin. Polly Brown. She's a good old 
sort, is Polly. She's a buying drinks for every one 
down at the Red Lion. She and her man had a 
good cosh to-day. 

Jim. a cosh? 

{Fanny sits on table) 

Mrs. Martin. They got four pound, ten — to say 
nothing of a watch and chain and etcetras. 

Jim. What! have they been a robbing of some 
one? 

Mrs. Martin. Put it like that, if you like, my 
innocent. You ain't robbed any one, have you? 
Oh, dear, no, 'tain't likely. 

Jim. I didn't until I took up with Fanny. 

Mrs. Martin. And nice easy clicks they've been, 
too, a nicking things outside a shop when the cove 
wasn't looking; why, a kid could do that. Why 
don't you do a click as would make Fanny proud 
of you? 

Jim. Don't you shove in your spoke; what's me 
and Fanny got to do with you? 

Mrs. Martin. She's my girl and it's my duty to 
see as she's treated properly. A nice way you're 
treating of her. What you does for her, I dunno. 



72 THE COSHER 

What she sees in you, I dunno. Why she sticks to 
you, I dunno — she ain't got nothing much out of 
you. 

Jim. I'll get a job soon. 

Mrs. Martin. You think you will; you ain't 
the only one as has thought that. And what are 
you going to do till you get a job — going to starve, 
ain't you; going to let her starve and going to let me 
starve ? 

Jim. No, I ain't. 

Mrs. Martin. What are you going to do, then? 

Jim. I'm going to prig something when I get 
the chance. 

Mrs. Martin. When you get a chance. God 
love a duck, when do you think that'll be? 

Jim. I dunno. 

Mrs. Martin. Why don't you make the chance, 
same as any decent bloke would? 

Jim. What can I do? 

Mrs. Martin. What can you do? My eye, 
you're a innocent, you are! You ought to have 
golden wings, you ought, and be playing a golden 
harp. 

Fanny. Shut up, mother. Don't you make fun 
of Jim; he's all right, he is. 



THE COSHER 73 

Mrs. Martin. {Rising) That's it, turn round 
on your mother, her as has reared you and brought 
you up in the path you should go. 

Fanny. Jim and me can get on all right, don't 
you fret. 

Mrs. Martin. Same as Polly Brown and her 
man. 

Fanny. (Rising) What they can do, we can 
do. {Putting on hat and shawl) Jim, I'm a going 
out. 

Jim. Where you going? 

Fanny. I'm going to find a bloke. 

Mrs. Martin. That's right, my dear; spoken 
like the child of your mother. 

Jim. What do you mean? 

Fanny. What I says. I'm going to find a bloke. 

Jim. You're giving me the chuck? 

Fanny. Course not. I'm going to bring some 
spondulicks to you. 

Jim. You're carrying on with other fellows. I 
ain't going to have it, though. I ain't that sort. 

Mrs. Martin. Go down near the docks, dearie, 
get hold of a sailor boy, one as has had no time to 
spend his money. 

Jim. Blast you, you old hag. 



74 THE COSHER 

Mrs. Martin. Blast yourself, a trying to spoil 
my girl's prospects. 

Fanny. I'm going. I'll get a bloke and bring 
him back here. 

Jim. God's truth, Fanny, do you mean it? 

Fanny. Keep your hair on. I ain't going to 
have no truck with him. I'll bring him back, you 
keep out of the way, then when I puts out the light, 
come in and cosh him. 

Jim. Cosh him? 

Fanny. Biff him on the head, and then we gets 
all he has on him. Clear out of the way when I 
come back, or he might suspect something. If I've 
got any one with me, I'll sing a bit downstairs, so 
that you'll know. (Exit Fanny) 

Jim. 'Ere, Fanny, I ain't 



Mrs. Martin. {Catching hold of Jim, who is 
starting after Fanny) Don't be a damn fool, 
Jimmy 

Jim. Leave me alone, curse you. It's all along 
of you that Fanny's gone off. 

Mrs. Martin. If she had always a listened to 
me, she'd a done much better for herself, too, that 
she would. She's wasting of herself on you, that's 
what she is. Pity you don't take yourself off. 

Jim. I know I ain't no use, but I love her too 
much to leave her. 



THE COSHER 75 

Mrs. Martin. I suppose you think she loves 
you. 

Jim. Sometimes I think she do and sometimes I 
think she don't. 

Mrs. Martin. Well, she loves her old mother 
best of all, let me tell you that. (Laughs) 

Jim. I vv^ish to God I'd never seen her. You've 
made a thief of me, between you, and now 

Mrs. Martin. And now she's going to give you 
a chance to make some coin — some for her, some for 
you and some for me. 

Jim. I won't do it. 

Mrs. Martin. Oh, yes, you will, just as a sign 
of affection for my lovely daughter. 

Jim. You old cat! 

Mrs. Martin. My, what a lot of fancy names 
you have got for me, to be sure, me as is your best 
friend. Look here, my lad, if you don't down this 
here josser she gets hold of, what do you think is 
going to happen? What's the bloke coming here 
for— eh? 

Jim. Blime me if he touches her, I'll kill him. 

Mrs. Martin. That's right, dearie, now you're 
talking. 

Jim. But she don't mean it, she ain't gone after 
any one. 



76 THE COSHER 

Mrs. Martin. {Insinuatingly) She'll be back 
soon and you may bet your life she'll have a new 
found gentleman friend with her. 

Jim. How do you know? Maybe it's only her 
talk. 

Mrs. Martin. Many's the time she's done it 
afore. When she and Bill Harvey was together it 
were quite a business with them. Bill was a bit of a 
bruiser and knocked the men out fair. 

Jim. My brother was right. He said all women 
was hell. 

Mrs. Martin. Oh, did he? 

Jim. He ought to know, too, he spends all his 
money on 'em. Says he, ''Keep your eyes open when 
you go with 'em — pay 'em for what you has and for 
the Lord's sake don't get tied up to one." 

Mrs. Martin. Pity you didn't mind what your 
brother said, you dirty funk. 

Jim. I ain't a funk. 

Mrs. Martin. You are, to let another bloke 
go with Fanny. 

Jim. I ain't a going to let him. She belongs 
to me and I'm a going to keep her — See? 

Mrs Martin. That's right, that's right. When 
she brings him along — cosh him. 

Jim. I will too. 



THE COSHER 77 

Mrs. Martin. Fanny'll be proud of you and I'll 
be proud of you. There's a cosh stick as Fanny has 
got hid outside. I'll show you how to use it; you 
bangs the cove behind the head with the knob part 
and then, bless your heart, he don't know no more 
until he wakes up and finds some kind friends have 
borrowed all his valuables. 

Jim. Serve him blooming well right. 

Mrs. Martin. But you has to be careful. If 
you hits him on top of the head and hard you might 
send him to kingdom come and that would be awk- 
ward for you if the cops got to know; it would be 
a case of swinging for you then. 

Jim. I don't care where I hits him, if he touches 
Fanny. 

Mrs. Martin. You must be careful, I tell you. 
Don't worry yourself about Fanny. She won't let 
him go too far. {Fanny heard singing outside) 

Jim. That's her. 

Mrs. Martin. She's got her man. Clear out; 
he mustn't see you. Go on, off you get. Hide 
somewheres; I'll come soon and give you the cosh 
stick. (Pushes him off L. Mrs. Martin smooths 
out bedclothes and ??iakes a pretence of arranging 
room in order) 

{Enter Fanny and Dick. He is dressed in sailor 
costume and considerably the zvorse for drink) 

Mrs. Martin. Oh, there you are, Mrs. Burton. 



78 THE COSHER 

I wasn't expecting of you in. I've just been tidying 

up your room a bit. 

Dick. Who's the old girl? 

Fanny. That — that's Mrs. Dawson, my land- 
lady. 

Mrs. Martin. Pleased to know you, Sir. 
You're Mr. Burton, ain't you, Mrs. Burton's long- 
lost husband of whom she's always a talking? 

Dick. Eh — Oh, yes — I'm him. 

Mrs. Martin. I knew it. 

Fanny. You can hook it, Mrs. Dawson. 

Dick. Yes, skedaddle, old girl, can't you? 

Mrs. Martin. You want to be left alone, not 
having seen each other for so long. 

Fanny. You've hit it. 

Mrs. Martin. Ahem! You owes me some- 
thing for the rent, Mrs. Burton, perhaps your dear 
husband, now he's come back, will pay it for you. 

Dick. You ain't going to get any money out 
of me. I've got no dealings with you. 

Mrs. Martin. Then you can't stay in this here 
room. 

Dick. ( To Fanny) What's this you've brought 
me to? 

Fanny. {To Dick) Give her a bob, she'll 



THE COSHER 79 

sling her hook all right then. 

Mrs. Martin. I must stand for my rights, 
dearies. If you can just give me a little now, so as 
I knows you're honest people. 

Dick. {Places his hand inside his jumper and 
produces coin) Here — take this shilling and get. 

Mrs. Martin. Oh, thank you, Sir, you're a 
real gent, you are, a real gent and no mistake. I'm 
a going. {With a lear) So long, dearies. Hope 
you enjoy yourselves. {Exit Mrs. Martin) 

Dick. Damn the old woman. Does she get 
money from every one as comes here with you? 

Fanny. Most always; but let me tell you, I 
don't bring many blokes here. I ain't regularly 
on the streets. 

Dick. I didn't reckon on paying more than you 
said. I'll take the bob out of that. 

Fanny. Now don't be mean now; a fine looking 
chap like you oughtn't to be stingy; besides, you 
ain't so hard up as that, are you? 

Dick. No, I ain't hard up. I got plenty, all 
right. You're a pretty enough girl. I'll give you 
what I said I would. Here, catch hold. {Taking 
money from a pouch which is inside his jumper 
and ffiving it to her) 

Fanny. {Placing ?noney in top of her stocking) 
Thanks; I knew you was the right sort, I did. 
Just the bloke I was a looking for. 



8o THE COSHER 

Dick. You're a bit of all right, you are. 

Fanny. Think so ? ( Taking off hat and shawl) 

Dick. I should say so. Here, give us a kiss to 
start on. 

Fanny. Wait a bit, can't you? don't be in such 
a hurry. {Letting down her hair) 

Dick. Buck up, I can't wait much longer. 

Fanny. I ain't a going to undress in front 
of you. ril put the light out — see? 

Dick. What? 

Fanny. It's just as good in the dark, ain't it? 

Dick. All right. {Fanny blows out lamp. 
Stage dark) 

Fanny. I shan't be long now. 

Dick. Where are you, my girl? 

Fanny. Over here; keep your hair on, now; 
don't be in such a hurry. 

Dick. I can't find you, where are you? 

Fanny. Here, I tells you. {Fanny seizes him 
and pushes him back towards door L.) 

Dick. What the devil are you doing? What's 
your little game? 

{Enter Jim) 

Fanny. Cosh him, Jim, cosh him. 



THE COSHER 8i 

Dick. {Shouting) Help! Help! 

{Jim knocks Dick on the head with stick. Dick 
falls to the ground with his face forward) 

Fanny. He's down; quiet as a mouse. Get a 
light, Jim. {Jim goes up stage and lights lamp) 

{Enter Mrs. Martin) 

Mrs. Martin. Is it all over? Have you put 
the little sailor boy to sleep ? 

Fanny. Yes, Jim coshed him good. 

Mrs, Martin. Where's his money? 

Fanny. Turn him over. He's got a bag round 
his chest. 

Mrs. Martin. {Advancing to body) Show a 
light, can't you? 

{Ji?n comes down, holding lamp, hut is too over- 
come to look in the direction of the body) 

Mrs. Martin. {Searching Dick) Ha, ha! 
Here it is. {Pulling out bag with money in it and 
holding it up) 

Fanny. I told you so. 

Mrs. Martin. {Eagerly counting the money) 
One, two, three, four, five, six — six pound. One, 
two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight — eight bob. 
Six pound eight, my dear, think of that. Money for 
you and money for Jim and money for me. 
{Laughs) Ha, ha! 



82 THE COSHER 

Fanny. Stow it, mother. {Beside the body) 
He ain't breathing. Blime me, I believe he's dead. 

Mrs. Martin. Feel his heart, dearie, feel his 
heart. 

Fanny. It ain't moving. He's done for, he is. 
He's a gone one. 

Mrs. Martin. Let's have a look. {Examining 
the body) Show a light, can't you, Jim? 

{Jim comes nearer with the light. He sees the 
body for the first time, and stands regarding it, 
horror-struck) 

Mrs. Martin. Yes, he's a dead 'un, right 
enough. 

Jim. {Realizing what he has done) God — God 
— It's my brother — my brother Dick, and I've killed 
him. 

{Curtain) 



BEAUTY VERSUS THE BEAST 

A Duologue 

1912 



CHARACTERS 
Basil Norton 

Barbara West 

Scene: Room in Basil's Chambers. Door L. 
Window R. Fireplace C. Table^ chairs, etc. Com- 
fortably furnished in bachelor fashion. Photographs 
on 7nantelshclf. 



BEAUTY VERSUS THE BEAST 

{Basil discovered seated, reading a letter. He 
is a smart, good-looking, middle-aged man of some- 
what blase appearance. He has on dressing-gown, 
and is smoking. He rises, glances at clock on mantel- 
shelf and compares his watch with it. Stands by 
the ?nantelshelf and again reads the letter, evidently 
pleased but perplexed at the contents. Bell heard 
off. He hastily puts pipe down and changes his 
dressing-gown for lounge coat. He goes to door L., 
opens it and stands ivatching off at some one being 
shoivn in at the front door; then speaks, holding the 
door open) 

Basil. Will you please come in here? 

{Enter Barbara, slowly and looking hesitatingly 
at him. She is a pretty blonde of about twenty) 

Barbara. You — are Mr. Norton, are you not? 

Basil. Yes, I'm Basil Norton, at your service, 
my dear lady. Won't you sit down ? 

Barbara. {Sits) Thank you. {Basil waits 
for her to speak, but she says nothing) 

Basil. May I ask if you are {Referring to let- 
ter)— ''W. B.''? 

85 



86 BEAUTY VERSUS THE BEAST 

Barbara. Yes, I am the writer of that letter. 

Basil. You do me a great honour in writing 
to me. 

Barbara. Honour? 

Basil. It has given me an additional interest in 
life. A letter from an unknown lady adds a fillip to 
a jaded imagination. 

Barbara. You guessed, then, that I was a 
woman ? 

Basil. Dear lady, your communication breathes 
femininity in every sentence. {Reading letter) 
"Will you pardon the liberty I am taking? I intend 
calling on you to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock, 
when I hope you will be in. I have something to 
discuss with you, which to me is very serious and 
important. Please listen to me. W. B." In 
answer to this note, may I say that it is now eleven 
o'clock, I am here and only too willing to listen 
to anything you may have to tell me? 

Barbara. Thank you. 

Basil. I am prepared to discuss any serious and 
important subject you care to select, from Botany 
to — Preparedness, although I know nothing of the 
former and the latter I am only conversant with 
through the headlines of my daily paper {Sits) — 
a Republican one. 

Barbara. I hope I have not been indiscreet in 
coming here. 



BEAUTY VERSUS THE BEAST 87 

Basil. Indiscreet! You have made this day one 
of the most delightful of my life. {He draws his 
chair nearer to Barbara) 

Barbara. You must think it strange that a girl 
whom you have never spoken to before should visit 
you in this manner. 

Basil. Strange? Say rather a romance and 
romance is only strange when we see it in cold print. 

Barbara. Oh — but my visit is anything but a 
romance. 

Basil. To me it is quite a romance. A twen- 
tieth century edition of ''Beauty and the Beast." 
I ,am the ugly, repulsive beast and you are the 
radiant beauty. 

Barbara. Please do not pay me compliments. I 
want to talk to you very seriously. 

Basil. I'm all attention, my dear Miss — 

Miss {As she does not give her name, he 

glances at the letter again) My dear Miss W. B. 

Barbara. I have come to ask you to do a good 
action. 

Basil. A good action? None of my friends or 
enemies have ever yet accused me of being capable 
of such a thing. 

Barbara. We are all capable of doing good. 

Basil. But so few of us want to. It gives one 
a bad name to be labelled as the man who is trying 
to do good. 



88 BEAUTY VERSUS THE BEAST 

Barbara. I want to ask you to do something 
that will bring happiness to others. 

Basil. What is it — a donation to a charity? I 
don't believe in Charities ; they help to make poverty 
attractive to the idle — but when Beauty demands, 1 
am powerless. 

Barbara. No, no! It Is something that con- 
cerns me nearer. I am here — because — Oh, It's so 
hard for me to tell you. 

Basil. Then don't try. {He rises and goes dotvn 
on one knee) On my bended knee I offer thanks 
to the circumstances, w^hatever they are, that brought 
you to the lair of the Beast. 

Barbara. Oh, but you don't understand. I 
must explain. 

Basil. Please don't. When explanations begin, 
confidences cease. 

Barbara. What I am going to ask of you con- 
cerns another. 

Basil. Oh ! Then this meeting is not a delicious 
secret between us two? 

Barbara. Indeed, I want nobody to know of 
my calling on j^ou. 

Basil. Nobody shall. (B owing to her) When 
Beauty comes to the Beast, the Beast will remain 
silent to the outside world regarding the exquisite 
visitation he has received. 

Barbara. Please don't make fun of me. 



BEAUTY VERSUS THE BEAST 89 

Basil. Believe me, I'm not. Making fun is a 
most serious business, and I always did hate being 
serious. 

Barbara. You make it so difficult for me to 
approach you. 

Basil. Let me approach you, then. {He brings 
his chair closer to hers) May I ask who the other 
is of whom you spoke? 

Barbara. He is some one very dear to me. 

Basil. {With a slight tone of disappointrnent) 
Yes? 

Barbara. Some one who is all I have in the 
world to care for, besides my mother. 

Basil. Lucky mortal. Is it indiscreet to ask the 
name of this favoured being? 

Barbara. His name is Norman West. 

Basil. {Concealing rather a bitter laugh) Young 
West! You love him? {Rises) 

Barbara. Yes, and it's because I do, that I'm 
here now. 

Basil. You say you love Norman West and for 
this reason you visit me here? 

Barbara. Yes. 

Basil. Then the Beast has reluctantly to con- 
fess to the Beauty — that he does not understand. 

Barbara. You are his friend, are you not? 
{Rising and going to him) 



90 BEAUTY VERSUS THE BEAST 

Basil. I think I've smoked a sufficient number 
of his cagarettes to be called so. 

Barbara. You have great influence over him. 

Basil. I don't know about that. I've been a 
trifle useful to West. 

Barbara. You think you have helped him? 

Basil. Well, I've helped to polish him. He 
was quite a rough diamond at one time. 

Barbara. He is very different from what he 
was. 

Basil. Yes, when I first knew him, he was the 
model Sunday School youth. I've shown him round 
a bit — made him feel his feet. I think I've improved 
him a little. 

Barbara. {Slowly crossing to chair and sitting) 
Improved ? 

Basil. Yes, an innocent lambkin may be a very 
picturesque object in a story book, but in real life 
it's a positive blot on the landscape. Young West, 
when I first met him, was walking through the 
world with his eyes shut. For the past twelve 
months I've been endeavouring to open them, and I 
think I've been fairly successful. I first had to 
elevate his eyebrows — elevate them with surprise — 
surprise at the many good things in the world he 
had not noticed before. Then he was able to peer 
at what the parsons called the pomps and vanities 
of this wicked world, and now that his eyes are 



BEAUTY VERSUS THE BEAST 91 

opening wide, he is beginning to realise to the full 
the beauty of all the things he has missed. 

Barbara. I wonder if it is you or your talk 
that is wicked? 

Basil. I beg of you not to think that I'm wicked 
— that is unless you have a preference for wicked 
men; then I'm as wicked as you please. 

Barbara. I don't like wicked men. 

Basil. I don't, either. A man who is wholly 
wicked must be nearly as tedious as a man who is 
wholly good. Thank goodness, the majority of us 
seek shelter in the half-way house. 

Barbara. Why do you joke about such serious 
things ? 

Basil. Because it's a far better policy to laugh 
at serious things than to take laughable things 
seriously. 

Barbara. It's not nice of you to keep making 
fun of me. 

Basil. {Going to her and sifting on footstool 
on the ground by her chair) Forgive the beast; 
he is penitent. He lies at your foot. Smile at him 
and, Hey — Presto, he will become Prince Charm- 
ing. 

Barbara. Please forgive what I'm going to say. 

Basil. Say anything you please. 



92 BEAUTY VERSUS THE BEAST 

Barbara. {JVith an effort) I wanted to tell 
you that your friendship for Norman is doing him 
no good. 

Basil. Which means that you don't approve of 
the improvement I flattered myself I had made in 
him. 

Barbara. How^ could I approve? He is quite 
a different boy. His nature is so easily influenced. 
I don't think you're really a bad man, but Norman 
is vv^eak and easily led. You don't realise the harm 
you are doing him. 

Basil. Harm? Is it possible that the small 
share of worldly wisdom I have instilled in Nor- 
man could do him harm? It is necessary for us all 
to know the world in which we live. 

Barbara. There was a person once who offered 
to lay all of the world at the feet of another. He 
was called by an ugly name. 

Basil. By jove, that's one to you. Tell Nor- 
man that, and he'll be saying, ''Get behind me, 
Satan," when next we meet. 

Barbara. {Hastily) Oh, I didn't mean that 
you were — Oh, indeed I didn't. I'm sure you're 
much better than he was. 

Basil. {Dryly) Thank you. 

Barbara. {Rises) I understand Norman. He 
is different from you. If he lives in the world 
like you, it will do harm to him. 



BEAUTY VERSUS THE BEAST 93 

Basil. {Rising and following her) My dear 
lady, I 

Barbara. {Turning and pleading to him) 
Please relax the influence you have over him. You 
don't know what it means to those near to him. Be- 
fore he met you, he was interested in his future. 
He worked hard for his examinations. He was 
happy and cheerful and a comfort to those at home. 
Now he is always seeking pleasure; on the rare 
occasions when he is at home, he is cynical and dis- 
contented. He is an only son; all his mother's 
thoughts are centred in him, but she rarely sees 
him now. He is forever in your company. 

Basil. There comes a day when the bird leaves 
its nest. 

Barbara. He even tries to say clever things like 
you. It isn't a good sign when a man invents 
smart phrases to condone his doings. 

Basil. I appear to be in your bad books. From 
what you've said, I shouldn't be very much sur- 
prised to hear that you disliked me somewhat. 

Barbara. Oh, no, I — it's the influence you have 
over Norman that I dislike, 

Basil. Beauty did not dislike the Beast — only 
his skin. You do not dislike me, but the influence 
that you credit me with having. 

Barbara. Yes. Please do not be angry because 
I tell you this. I do it for Norman's sake. 



94 BEAUTY VERSUS THE BEAST 

Basil. Angry? Angry, because a girl whom 
I can see to be good and pure disapproves of my 
ways? {Seriously) Let me tell you something. 
In my heart of hearts I disapprove of my own ways. 
I think I should be happier were I less a man of the 
world. But I've been unfortunate, I've had nobody 
to influence me. I have drifted and drifted until I 
have become a — veritable — Beast. 

Barbara. Don't say that. No doubt your ways 
suit you well enough, but they are not suited to 
Norman. 

Basil. You wish me to cease to be his friend? 
{Facing her) 

Barbara. I dare not ask you that. I only ask 
you not to take him away from others, from his 
home, from his studies. 

Basil. Well, dear lady, for j^our sake, I prom- 
ise only to see Norman West on rare occasions, and 
on those rare occasions not to exert unduly the in- 
fluence you say I have over him. 

Barbara. ( Taking his hand and looking grate- 
fully at hi?n) How kind of you ! Thank you, thank 
you. 

Basil. It seems that, like Norman, I too can 
be easily influenced, although until to-day I did not 
know it. You see how soon I succumbed. You 
have conquered. 

Barbara. Not I, but j^our better nature won 
the victory. 



BEAUTY VERSUS THE BEAST 95 

Basil. (Still holding her hand) You love Nor- 
man. Your love must be a glorious thing. It is 
far better for him to revel in that than in the many 
frothy pleasures to which I could introduce him. 
The only thing I ask is, that when the day arrives 
for him to place a gold band on this little finger, you 
will not altogether forget the Beast whose den you 
invaded for the sake of your sweetheart. (Barbara 
laughs) I'm trying to be serious now. Don't 
laugh. This is the first time in my life that I've 
been really serious. 

Barbara. (Suppressing her laughter) It's so 
funny. Norman is not going to marry me. 

Basil. You mean you're giving him up? 

Barbara. Giving him up? No. 

Basil. You're not going to marry him and you're 
not giving him up. You don't mean to say he's 
giving you up ? The fool ! 

Barbara. No, No! 

Basil. You have the better of me again. I don't 
understand. 

Barbara. Norman couldn't marry me if he 
wanted to. You see, he's my brother. 

Basil. Your brother? 

Barbara. Yes. 

Basil. And all the time I've been thinking 
that 



A MOTOR MISHAP 

A Comedy in One Act 
1913 



CHARACTERS 

Godfrey Tarleton 
Jack Worth 
Agnes Brunton 

Scene: The Bath High Road. It is ni?2e 
o'clock of a?i evening in October. On the R. is a 
signpost which reads "S Miles to Devizes.'' 



A MOTOR MISHAP 

( The curtain rises on a dark stage, the scene be- 
ing barely discernible. The noise of an auto ap- 
proaching is heard L., then suddenly ceases. The 
lamps from the auto light up the L. of the stage, 
but the R. is in comparative darkness) 

Agnes. (Speaking off) What is the matter? 
Why have you stopped the car? 

Godfrey. '{Speaking off) I haven't stopped it. 
It stopped itself. 

Agnes. {Off) What's the matter with it? 

Godfrey. {Off) I don't know. 

Agnes. {Off) I'm going to get out. Help me 
down. 

Godfrey. {Off) Yes, dear. 

( They are heard to descend from the car. Enter 
Agnes, followed by Godfrey, L.) 

Agnes. I thought you knew^ how to drive a 
car. 

Godfrey. So I do, darling. 

Agnes. Then why does it stop dead? What is 
the matter with it? Why doesn't it go on? 

lOI 



I02 A MOTOR MISHAP 

Godfrey. I say, I'm not to blame, you know, 
for the vagaries of an automobile. 

Agnes. You could have seen that everything was 
all right before we set out. 

Godfrey. They are supposed to do that at the 
garage. 

Agnes. On an occasion like this, you should have 
done it yourself. 

Godfrey. Yes, dear, but I don't know how. 

Agnes. You don't know how? You said just 
now that you knew how to drive a car. 

Godfrey. Yes, but I don't know anything about 
overhauling. It w^asn't part of the course. 

Agnes. The course? 

Godfrey. Yes, I had a ten-guinea course at a 
motoring school — twelve lessons in all. 

Agnes. Where are we? 

Godfrey. I don't know, dear. 

Agnes. What are we going to do? 

Godfrey. I don't know, darling. 

Agnes. What a resourceful man you are. For 
goodness' sake, do something. We can't stay here 
all night. 

Godfrey. No, of course not, darling. 



A MOTOR MISHAP 103 

Agnes. And don't keep calling me darling. 

Godfrey. Not if you don't wish it. 

Agnes. And don't stand there doing nothing. 
Get us out of this fix. Oh, if only my husband were 
here, he would know what to do. 

Godfrey. I call that unkind, Agnes. 

Agnes. What? 

Godfrey. To speak so of your husband on such 
a momentous occasion as this. Remember we are 
eloping. 

Agnes. Am I likely to forget it when the car 
breaks down at midnight and we are miles from 
anywhere ? 

Godfrey. It isn't midnight. It hasn't gone ten 
yet. 

Agnes. How perverse you are! If you really 
love me as you say you do, you wouldn't contradict 
me. 

Godfrey. I beg your pardon, dearest. 

Agnes. Can't we find out where we are? 

Godfrey. We'll ask the first person who passes 
how far we are from a hotel. 

Agnes. Supposing nobody passes all night — 
what are we going to do then ? Stay here ? 

Godfrey. I'll walk on and see if I can find an 



I04 A MOTOR MISHAP 

inn or a cottage. 

Agnes. What! And leave me all alone? How 
can you suggest such a thing, Godfrey? You know 
my nerves would never stand it. 

Godfrey. Let us go together. 

Agnes. I, couldn't walk a step. I'm too ex- 
hausted. Do think of something sensible. 

Godfrey. Yes, dear. 

Agnes. Couldn't you shout out for help? 

Godfrey. There may be nobody to hear. 

Agnes. Keep it up till somebody does. 

Godfrey. Well, I'll try. Help! {He gives 
vent to a small shrill shout) 

Agnes. That's not nearly loud enough. 

Godfrey. {Shouting again) Help! 

Agnes. Louder! 

Godfrey. {PFith an effort) Help! Help!! 
Help!!! {At the last shout his voice cracks) 

Agnes. That's enough for the present. What 
is that over there? {Pointing R.) 

Godfrey. It is something white. 

Agnes. Is it alive? 

Godfrey. No, no! 



A MOTOR MISHAP 105 

Agnes. {Shiinking back behind Godfrey) It 
is pointing at us. It knows that I have left my hus- 
band. It is denouncing me. Oh, Oh, why did I 
do it? Why did I do it? 

Godfrey. {Peering intently at the object) It's 
all right. There is no need to be frightened. It 
is only a signpost. 

Agnes. Only a signpost? 

Godfrey. That's all. 

Agnes. Then we can find out where we are. 

Godfrey. By Jove! So we can. {They ad- 
vance towards the signpost R.) 

Agnes. Let's see what it says. 

Godfrey. I wish we could see. — What does it 

say? "Five miles to — to " I know, I'll strike 

a match, then we shall be able to see. {He fumbles 
with 77iatches, eventually strikes one, burning his 
finger at the same ti?ue. He utters an exclamation 
and lets the box of matches fall) 

Agnes. What's the matter? 

Godfrey. I've burnt my fingers. {Searching on 
ground for matches) 

Agnes. How clumsy you are! Horace never 
burns his fingers when he lights a match. 

Godfrey. It's most unfair to compare me with 
your husband under the circumstances. He doesn't 



io6 A MOTOR MISHAP 

elope with married women — he doesn't 

Agnes. Yes, there are quite a number of things 
he doesn't do. He has his business to look after; 
that occupies all his time. 

Godfrey. Poor prosaic soul. 

Agnes. Godfrey, how dare you speak slightingly 
of him! 

Godfrey. I beg j^our pardon, dearest. 

Agnes. Haven't you found the matches yet? 

Godfrey. No. 

Agnes. I suppose I shall have to look too. 
(They both search on the ground for the matches) 

Godfrey. Where are they? They must be 
somewhere. 

Agnes. And this is finding my affinity. 

Godfrey. I've got them. Now we shall be able 
to read the sign. {He lights match and holds it 
up, but the sign is too high for them to read) 

Agnes. Hold the match higher. 

Godfrey. {Standing on tip-toe) That's as 
high as I can. 

Agnes. What a nuisance — we can't read it. 
You'll have to climb up the post. 

Godfrey. Yes, dear, I'll try if you wish it, but 
I 



A MOTOR MISHAP 107 

Agnes. You must. How else are we to find out 
where we are? 

Godfrey. {Triumphantly) I've got it. 

Agnes. What? 

Godfrey. It's the very thing. 

Agnes. What's the very thing? 

Godfrey. Why, one of the motor lamps. 

Agnes. Of course. How stupid you are. Why 
didn't you think of it before? 

' Godfrey. I'll fetch one of them. We'll soon 
know what it says up there. {Exits quickly L.) 

Agnes. {Calling after hi?n) Be quick. 

{In moving, Agnes stumbles over Jack Worth, 
who is asleep near the signpost. He utters a drowsy 
exclamation) 

Agnes. {Running away) Oh! Oh! Godfrey! 

Godfrey. {Ojf stage) Yes, dear, what is it? 
{Enters L. with motor lamp) 

Agnes. There's something alive over there. It 
came near me and clutched hold of me. 

Godfrey. Where is it? 

Agnes. {Pointing) There. 

Godfrey. {Speaking in Jack's direction) How 
dare you molest this lady? 



io8 A MOTOR MISHAP 

( Godfrey turns the lamp towards Jack, who is 
seen awakejiing from sleep. Jack Worth is dressed 
in old clothes and has an unkempt beard, yet a 
certain air of refinement and some degree of cleanli- 
ness proclaim him to he other than the ordinary 
tramp ) 

Agnes. It's one of those horrid tramps. What 
a start he gave me. 

{Jack rises and faces Godfrey and Agnes) 

Jack. Excuse me, do you mind turning that lamp 
in another direction? The light is so powerful 
it is hurting my tyts. 

Godfrey. Cheek! {Steps back) 

Jack. Thank you. I am exceedingly obliged. 

Godfrey. What do you mean by frightening this 
lady? 

Jack. If I have frightened her, I humbly beg 
her pardon — such was not my intention, Mr. Tarle- 
ton. 

Godfrey. You know me? 

Jack. I recognised you the moment you spoke. 

Godfrey. Who are you ? You are not what you 
seem; you are no common tramp. 

Jack. Indeed I am, inasmuch as at present I 
have no visible means of sustenance. 

Godfrey. I know your voice. Who are you? 



A MOTOR MISHAP 109 

Jack. I was once a friend of yours. 

Godfrey. A friend of mine. {He turns the lamp 
in his direction, takes a good look at hi?n, then 
recognises him) Mad Jack! 

Jack. Jack Worth, at your service. (Bows) 

{Godfrey holds the lamp nearer to him) 

Jack. Please remember, there are few things I 
cannot face but that lamp is one of them. Let 
me place it down for you. 

{Jack takes the lamp from. Godfrey and places 
it on one of the supports of the signpost in such a 
position that it, with the light off L., now fully 
illumines the stage. 

Agnes. {To Godfrey) You know him, God- 
frey? 

Godfrey. Yes, there's no need to be afraid. 

Agnes. I'm not. 

Jack. {Returning to them) This is indeed a 
pleasure, meeting you again, Godfrey, even though 
you did snatch me somewhat rudely from Dream- 
land. 

Godfrey. What are you doing here. Jack, and 
in that rig-out? 

Jack. Before I give any details of my biography, 
won't you introduce me to your wife? 

Godfrey. Er — yes. My dear, this is Mr. Worth, 



no A MOTOR MISHAP 

an old college chum of mine. 

Jack. {Bowing) Delighted to make your ac- 
quaintance. 

Agnes. Yes, but I'm not his wife. 

Godfrey. Agnes ! 

Jack. Please pardon my mistake. 

Agnes. I am eloping with him, though. 

Godfrey. Agnes, don't be so indiscreet. What 
will Mr. Worth think? 

Agnes. Mr. Worth will understand. He is a 
man of the world, despite his appearance. 

Godfrey. {Changing the conversation hur- 
riedly) Yes, why this appearance? 

Jack. It's very easy to explain. I am gifted 
with expensive tastes, — at any rate, moderately ex- 
pensive tastes. 

Godfrey. Is that why you sleep on the high road 
and wear those clothes ? 

Jack. Precisely. 

Godfrey. You always were a puzzle, Jack. 

Jack. It's simple enough. I have an annual 
income of £800, the capital of which is entailed. 
This amount is not nearly sufficient to supply my 
wants all the year round. It lasts me, as a rule, 
some four or five months, then for the remainder 



A MOTOR MISHAP in 

of the year I live on nothing. 

Godfrey. Nothing — I don't see how you can. 

Jack. That is figuratively speaking, nothing. 
I become a tramp, a knight of the road, and I exist 
in much the same fashion as the gentlemen of that 
fraternity do. 

Agnes. Why don't you allow^ your income to 
cover the whole of the year? Many people live well 
on less. 

Jack. At college I was given the sobriquet of 
"Mad Jack." Why, I don't know, unless it was 
that I had my own reasons for doing things. My 
reason for regulating my finances so, is that I can 
be happy on plenty and I can be happy on nothing, 
but never, never on a little. My present arrange- 
ment allows me to be happy all the year round. If 
I eked my money out to last the whole twelve 
months, I should be miserable for exactly the same 
period. 

Godfrey. Couldn't you do work of some kind? 

Jack. I doubt it, and why should I try? I'm 
quite contented with things as they are. 

Agnes. But you can't enjoy going about the 
country like this. 

Jack. Certainly I can. 

Agnes. How strange ! 

Jack. Not at all. I enjoy a freedom which has 



112 A MOTOR MISHAP 

a charm of its own. Then, too, the contrast between 
this and a life of plentj^ gives light and shade to 
my life. Mine is not the ordinary drab existence 
of a man with expensive habits living on £800 a 
year at so much per month. 

Agnes. What a philosopher you are, Mr. 
Worth. 

Jack. Every one who thinks is a philosopher. 

Agnes. I think a great deal, but I don't get the 
same amount of happiness from my surroundings as 
you do. 

Jack. Possibly you don't aim at happiness. It 
is my direct target, notwithstanding the fact that 
I am called "Mad Jack." 

Agnes. What other aim could I have but hap- 
piness ? 

Jack. Perhaps — romance. 

Agnes. Romance? 

Jack. Yes, romance — an artificial creation by 
man. 

Agnes. But romance is beautiful. 

Jack. So are artificial creations — sometimes. 

Agnes. What makes you say that I aim at ro- 
mance? 

Jack. The night air, the Bath Road, the motor 
car, and the presence of Godfrey Tarleton. 



A MOTOR MISHAP 113 

Godfrey. Look here, Jack, you're talking a lot 
of rot, the same as you always did. Can you tell 
us where we are? 

Jack. Yes, it's five miles to Devizes and twenty- 
five to Bath. 

Godfrey. Thanks. If we can get to Devizes, 
we'll stay there the night. 

Jack. Why the doubt? 

Godfrey. There's something the matter with 
the car. It stopped dead a short time ago. Per- 
haps it's all right now. I'll have a go and see if 
I can start the thing. {Crosses to entrance L.) 

Agnes. At last you're going to do something. 

Godfrey. I'll see what I can do, but I'm not 
a beastly mechanic, you know. {Exits L.) 

Agnes. The car breaking down has spoilt every- 
thing. 

Jack. Not for me; but for the accident, I 
shouldn't have had the honour of your acquaintance. 

Agnes. It has been very interesting to meet a 
man with your original views, Mr. Worth, still, I 
am beginning to wish I hadn't come. 



Jack. Then there would have been no- 
Agnes. No elopement. 
Jack. And no romance. 



114 A MOTOR MISHAP 

Agnes. It does not seem nearly so romantic now 
as when it was being planned. 

Jack. Romance and the present rarely coincide. 
In the future, maybe you will look back on this as 
the most eventful day of your life. It will either 
be a day of regrets or a day of sweet romance, 
according to how your marriage turns out. 

Agnes. Oh, but I am already married. 

Jack. Then I'll say no more. I appear to be 
treading on dangerous ground. 

Agnes. Oh, no; Godfrey and I said we would 
defy the world. Naturally, after my husband has 
secured his divorce, we are to be married. 

Jack. You think he will apply for a divorce ? 

Agnes. It will be very mean of him if he doesn't. 

Jack. You are, of course, very much in love 
with Godfrey? 

Agnes. I suppose so, otherwise I wouldn't have 
run away with him. 

Jack. And he is in love with you ? 

Agnes. He says so. 

Jack. Do you think so yourself? 

Agnes. Well, he is very attentive to me. 

Jack. More so than your husband? 

Agnes. More than my husband is now, but not 



A MOTOR MISHAP 115 

more than he was before we were married. 

Jack. And )^ou think Godfrey's attentions will 
continue after you have been divorced and then 
married to him? 

Agnes. I hope so. You see, we understand one 
another so well. 

Jack. Umph — Do you mind my asking these 
questions ? 

Agnes. I shouldn't answer them if I did. Be- 
sides, I am not quite sure whether I have done a 
wise thing. I feel you can advise me. 

Jack. I will do all in my power to save you 
and Godfrey from making the same mistake I once 
made in the days when I did not boast of being 
happy. Tell me, isn't your husband good to you? 

Agnes. Oh, yes, in his way; but I see so little 
of him. His business occupies so much of his time. 
Why, this morning he went to Liverpool, and is 
to be away for two or three days. 

Jack. Leaving his wife to the mercy of sympa- 
thetic strangers. Weren't you happy at home? 

Agnes. In a sense, yes, but there was something 
lacking. 

Jack. Romance? 

Agnes. Yes. 

Jack. And so you have set out in pursuit of it? 



ii6 A MOTOR MISHAP 

Agnes. Yes. 

Jack. You are chasing a will-o'-the-wIsp, dear 
lady. 

Agnes. But I must find it somewhere. 

Jack. Then find it in your home. Be content, 
be happy. You must dispense with romance in 
order to find romance. 

Agnes. If I could only think so! 

Jack. Your husband loves you, doesn't he? 

Agnes. Oh, yes. 

Jack. Is Godfrey's love so much more worthy 
that you give up your husband's for it? 

Agnes. No. 

Jack. Then why do it? 

Agnes. You see, my husband loves me, but does 
not tell me so; now, Godfrey is always telling me 
he loves me. 

Jack. Let your husband's actions tell you. He 
is working hard making money ; no doubt he lavishes 
a deal of it on you. 

Agnes. Yes, I have everything I w^ant that money 
can buy. 

Jack. Then don't leave the substance for the 
shadow; let )Our romance be practical, not chimeri- 
cal. 



A MOTOR MISHAP 117 

Agnes. It's too late now. 

Jack. Why is it? You can go back and this 
little escapade need only be known to us three. 
Say nothing yourself, rest assured that I will say 
nothing, and for the sake of his own dignity, God- 
frey will do the same. 

Agnes. If I went back, how could I manage it? 

Jack. Let me take you. 

Agnes. How? (Noise heard off of Godfrey 
experimenting on car) 

Jack. In the car. 

Agnes. It's broken. 

Jack. It can be repaired. 

Agnes. Yes, but 

Jack. If he hasn't done it, I'll see what I can 
do. I know something of motors, and should be 
able to put any ordinary accident to rights. 

Agnes. What am I to say to Godfrey? 

Jack. Leave him to me. I'll arrange matters 
somehow. 

Agnes. What shall I do? What shall I do? 

{Enter Godfrey L. He has taken his coat off 
and has his shirt sleeves rolled up) 

Godfrey. I've tightened up a lot of nuts and 
things and experimented all ways with the car, but 



ii8 A MOTOR MISHAP 

it still won't go. 

Jack. Perhaps I can discover what's wrong. 

Godfrey. Do you know anything about autos? 

Jack. A little. 

Godfrey. I wish you'd see what you can do, 
then. It's a mystery to me what's the matter. 

Jack. Well, I'll do my best. {Exit L.) 

Agnes. Godfrey, your friend and I have had 
a long talk. 

Godfrey. He's a weird creature, isn't he ? 

Agnes. He certainly has ideas. 

Godfrey. But he's mad, you know. He earned 
that name at college and it's stuck to him ever since. 
He's lived a wild kind of life, too. 

Agnes. Yes. 

Godfrey. He was mixed up in a big scandal — 
some woman or other. 

Agnes. What was the scandal? 

Godfrey. (Contemptuously) She was a mar- 
ried woman and he ran away with her. 

Agnes. Oh ! 

Godfrey. {Realising what he has said) Of 
course, it w^as a very different affair from ours — 
very different. 



A MOTOR MISHAP 119 

Agnes. Now I know why he spoke to me as 
he did. 

Godfrey. What has he been saying to you? 

Agnes. Nothing — a little advice, that's all. Be- 
cause you elope with me, I suppose in the future your 
friends will know you as "Mad Godfrey." 

Godfrey. Agnes ! 

(Enter Jack Worth L. He is carrying Godfrey's 
coat) 

Jack. I think it's all right now. 

Godfrey. You've mended the car ? 

Jack. Yes. 

Godfrey. What was the matter? 

Jack. The wire from the magneto was loose at 
the coil, so I just tightened it. 

Godfrey. I remember they told me something 
about the magneto at the motoring school. (Ar- 
ranging his shirt sleeves) 

Agnes. The car is ready now, then?' 

Jack. Yes. (Jack, unseen by Godfrey, indi- 
cates to Agnes that she is to enter the car) 

Agnes. (Crossing) I think I'll get in. (Exits 
L.) 

Jack. (Crossing) I'll bring the lamp along. 
(Hides Godfrey's coat behind the signpost and 



I20 A MOTOR MISHAP 

picks up motor lamp) 

Godfrey. Thanks, old man, for your help; 
you've proved a friend in need. 

Jack. (With meaning) I have. 

Godfrey. Can't I do something for you? 

Jack. No, nothing, just leave things to take care 
of themselves. {Casually) Oh — I've left your coat 
over there. 

Godfrey. {Going R.) Over here? 

JACK. Yes. 

Godfrey. I can't see it. 

Jack. It's there somewhere. {Exits quickly L. 
with lamp.) 

Godfrey. I say, Jack, I can't find it, it's so 
confoundedly dark. Where the devil is it? Show 
a light, will you? Ah, I've got it. {He picks up 
coat and is putting it on when noise of auto starting 
is heard off L.) 

Godfrey. Hullo there, wait for me. 

Agnes. {Off) I'm very sorry, Godfrey, but 
we don't intend to. 

Godfrey. What do you mean? 

{The lights from the motor lamps off L. move, 
indicating that the car is reversing its direction) 

Godfrey. I say, what are you turning round 



A MOTOR MISHAP 121 

for? Where are you going? 

Agnes. (Ojf) Home. Mr Worth is taking 
me. 

Godfrey. But you can't. 

Agnes. (Ojf) I can. 

Godfrey. Yes, but 

Agnes. {Ojf) No time to argue. Good-bye, 
Godfrey. 

Godfrey. What am I to do? 

Agnes. (Off) Devizes is only five miles off. 
(The auto is heard receding) 

Godfrey. Well, I'm (Shouting after 

them) I say, Worth, where's the nearest place I can 
get a drink? 

Jack. (A considerable way off, shouting back) 
There's a Public House about two miles down the 
road. Look sharp. It closes at eleven. So long. 

(Godfrey stands looking off in the direction they 
have gone. The auto is heard disappearing) 

Godfrey. Damn! Damn!! DAMN!!! 

(He takes out his ivatch, lights a match to see 
the time, then replaces the luatch, buttons up his 
coat and steps out briskly in the direction of the 
Public House R.) 

( Curtain ) 



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